


When You Took Me In

by neon_letter



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Conversations, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Romance, Feelings Realization, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt Edamura Makoto, Hurt/Comfort, Just Add Kittens, M/M, Mutual Pining, Necessary Conversations, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Case 4: Wizard of Far East, Slow Build, Smoking, Soft Laurent Thierry, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29030913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neon_letter/pseuds/neon_letter
Summary: The kitten was unusually small, most likely the runt of the litter. And very young. Laurent realizes with a mix of relief and discomfort that had Makoto not found her, she might not have made it another night. She was still in that uncertain window of frailty, but Laurent knew Makoto’s compassion would be the kitten’s fighting chance—he knew the second Makoto clutched her to his chest when he mentioned her mother was probably not coming back.He didn’t expect Makoto to include him in her care, too.
Relationships: Edamura Makoto & Laurent Thierry, Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry
Comments: 23
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**ASAKUSA, JAPAN**

**3AM**

A clap of thunder jolts Makoto awake. 

He clutches his pillow in a mix of fear and confusion. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is.

He blinks, and it slowly comes back to him. He’s back home in Japan, in the little square room above the old convenience store. 

The rain cascades down the familiar windowpane and stretches the street lights like molasses. He doesn’t remember the forecaster saying anything about a storm. 

Another flash of lightning captures the row of neatly arranged capsule toys on the coffee table he had thrifted before becoming a con artist. 

_Before._

The apartment is at once familiar and unwelcome, like it belongs to a Makoto of the past that no longer exists. He never thought he’d be envious of his past self. 

A self who never knew the story of his father, and who had never met Laurent Thierry. 

Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back here when he can afford to stay anywhere else. He comes back to the decades-old tatami and the overhead light dotted with dead insects and the too-loud refrigerator because he can silence his phone and pretend that nothing had changed at all. 

Makoto hazily remembers that the last thing in his fridge is an opened carton of milk before he’s asleep again.

—

_knock_

_knock knock_

The gentle rapping at the door pulls Makoto out of a dreamless slumber. The numbers on his phone glow 8:00am. 

Two more knocks come.

“Mmh... just a second!” he shouts, voice cracking with sleep. He throws off his blanket and, blinded by the morning light filtering through the thin curtains, scrambles to pull on some sweatpants before padding to the front door. 

Still disoriented, Makoto forgets to check the peephole before tugging the handle. The regret is instant.

“Good morning, Edamame.” 

Laurent’s smile is easy, as if Makoto had been expecting him to show up on his doorstep at 8 in the morning, as if they shared a friendship as orderly as Laurent’s pressed twill pants and tailored coat. 

Something like fury bubbles up in Makoto and he clutches the door handle with the urge to slam the door in Laurent’s face.

“I said I’m not interested,” Makoto mutters, eyes narrowing. 

Laurent managed to reach Makoto on a single of several calls he’d made to him since the last con to ask him to join some heist he was planning in the United States. Makoto hung up the call midway through. 

“It’s not about that, Edamame. I only wanted to talk to you—“

“About what?” Makoto snaps. The tone is biting enough to dissolve Laurent’s smile on impact. “I did what you asked. I played my part in your stupid revenge plan. Now go live your trash life and let me live my own in peace.” 

Makoto sees Laurent’s eyebrows rise and his lips part to say something, but by then he’s already closing the door.

“Makoto, please—“ 

The door slams to silence on the other end. Only when Makoto takes in how fast his heart is beating does he realize that Laurent had called him by his first name. He waits, fists clenched at his sides. For what, he didn’t know. After a while, something shifts over the surface of the door.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent whispers, the words barely audible. “I didn’t realize what you went through.”

_Because you only know how to use other people for your own convenience,_ Makoto thinks.

What comes out is, “I meant what I said. At the headquarters.”

“I know.” 

“I can’t stand you.” 

“I know.”

Makoto breathes out slowly through his nose. Before he can put together a response, his stomach growls pitifully. He clutches the shirt fabric there, knowing he’ll have to address whatever Laurent came here for before he can eat anything. Begrudgingly, he throws on a sweater and slips on his shoes.

He opens the door a crack just as Laurent pulls his hand away. 

“You came here and said you’re sorry. Can you leave now? I need to eat breakfast,” Makoto says curtly, but he knows Laurent well enough that the man wouldn’t have lingered at his door if an apology was all he wanted. 

Better to deal with whatever amends the asshole wanted to make now and never have to see him again. 

“Can I treat you?” Laurent asks, and Makoto almost laughs at how predictable the request is. 

Perhaps Makoto really was getting better at reading the blonde idiot. The realization unexpectedly ignites in him the same thrill of accomplishment he’d felt during the last con, when he’d briefly thrown Laurent’s plan into uncertainty. 

He brushes the feeling aside, stepping around the older man and down the metal steps. 

“I don’t know why you came here, Laurent,” he says without looking behind him. He hears Laurent’s footsteps fall into step behind his.

“I just want to make sure you’re alright.” 

Makoto scoffs. “Suddenly started caring about how you treat other people?” he asks scornfully. There’s silence behind him, unbroken as they walk down a street blanketed with soggy rust-dyed leaves and past a damp wooden playground. The autumn chill starts to bite at his nose and ears. As Laurent’s footsteps steadily follow behind him, Makoto can’t deny how strange the situation is. 

Out of all the zipcodes in the world, Laurent showed up on his doorstep. Alone. After calling him weeks prior to explain the job he put together in the US and inviting Makoto to play a central part in it, outlining Makoto’s role in great detail (as Makoto pretended not to listen). 

The unusual call put Makoto on edge. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Laurent only gave him all that information and dropped by as a part of some grander strategy, to soften him up, to prime him for some upcoming scheme he’d already be too deep in by the time he could even think to refuse. 

Again.

He growled at the thought and spun around to face the taller man. Laurent looked lost in thought himself, enough that he seemed surprised to see Makoto glowering up at him. The younger man wasted no time streaming his thoughts into words.

“I’m done being strung around by you,” Makoto says bitterly. “And you following me around and offering to buy me breakfast after everything, without telling me why you’re even here... It’s creepy as hell! What are you after?”

Laurent shrugs. “I told you, I came by to make sure you’re okay,” he replies evenly.

“Bullshit!” Makoto cried, startling a pair of uniformed schoolgirls walking down the street. Laurent looks, infuriatingly, unaffected by his outburst. “All you’ve done is take advantage of me! For years. I don’t—I don’t even know you!”

The distain in his tone is palpable when he adds, much more quietly but with his gaze perfectly level with the taller man’s, “Don’t want to.” 

Laurent doesn’t respond, but Makoto thinks he sees him swallow. _Good,_ he thinks.

In the pocket of strained silence, Makoto hears the sound first. 

It’s almost imperceptible, a cry they would have otherwise missed. A string of them follow, and Makoto is grateful for the excuse to break off the conversation. 

“What was that?” Laurent mutters quietly.

Makoto tip-toes toward the noise, which seemed to come from a bush on the corner of the paved road. Thankfully, the cries don’t stop—they almost guide Makoto to them. 

Ducking down, Makoto bends his head to peek through the glossy leaves, blinking when he spots the round patch of fur that certainly didn’t match its surroundings. He hesitates before reaching in and cupping it in his hands. 

“What is it, Edamame?” Laurent asks gently, stepping closer to the younger man. Makoto turns around, revealing the small grey kitten cradled against his chest. Its bright turquoise eyes contrast sharply with the monotone color of its fur. 

They watch it shift around in Makoto’s palms like they’re both thankful for a refuge from revisiting their earlier conversation.

“I should put it back,” Makoto finally says. “Its mom will come looking for it.” 

“She won’t, I’m afraid,” Laurent replies solemnly, and Makoto shoots him an incredulous look. 

“What?” 

“Look at her.” Makoto does. “She’s dirty,” Laurent mutters, reaching out his thumb to brush some dirt off of the kitten’s head. It doesn’t come off. “It must be days since she’s last eaten.”

Makoto goes quiet. “I’ll go clean her up and give her some milk,” he declares suddenly. He pulls the kitten into his chest and turns on his heel.

“Wait! Edamame!” Laurent calls after him. Makoto rolls his eyes and looks back.

“What?”

“You can’t feed cow’s milk to a kitten,” Laurent chuckles, tucks his hands into his pockets, as if this is basic knowledge. Makoto wants to punch him. “It’ll make her sick. Kittens need to be fed a special kind of formula made just for them.” 

Makoto’s studies Laurent for a moment before letting out a sigh. “Fine. Then _you_ go get whatever formula you’re talking about and I’ll take her home.”

“Alright,” Laurent replies with a raised brow, but Makoto’s back is already turned.

—

_What’s taking so long_

Laurent is standing in line at the supermarket with his phone in one hand and a basket full of dairy products in the other. 

_I’ll be back soon,_ he types. _How’s the kitten?_

Three people in front of him check out before Makoto responds.

_Good, small._

He smiles at the short reply, the period at the end of it that invited no reply from Laurent. 

It _was_ true, the kitten was unusually small, most likely the runt of the litter. And very young. Laurent realizes with a mix of relief and discomfort that had Makoto not found her, she might not have made it another night. She was still in that uncertain window of frailty, but Laurent knew Makoto’s compassion would be the kitten’s fighting chance—he knew the second Makoto clutched her to his chest when he mentioned her mother was probably not coming back.

He didn’t expect Makoto to include him in her care, too.

—

At a little before 10am, the apartment door creaks open and Laurent steps inside, letting in a billow of brisk air with his arrival that mixes with the looming scent of tobacco inside the apartment. He frowns and pulls off his shoes at the genkan, leaning against the wall for support. There’s a small cardboard box in the corner of the room adorned with printed persimmons—a purple sweater had been tucked inside. The kitten isn’t in it, Laurent noted. As he sets down the groceries next to the kitchen sink, Makoto is also nowhere to be found.

“Edamame—?”

“In here.” The proximity of the voice startles Laurent, and he notices for the first time that the small apartment unit includes a comparatively large bathroom, fiberglass tub included. He steps just inside the wooden doorframe where Makoto is squatting on the tile floor with his back turned, pink plastic bathroom slippers on his feet.

Makoto must have heard him come in because he says, triumphantly, “She fooled us.” He grins and presents his hands to Laurent, who leans forward to get a better look. 

For a second Laurent wants to ask if Makoto had found a second kitten, because the animal in his hands is as white as snow, save for a single band of grey on the top of her head.

“She’s wearing a crown,” Makoto whispers fondly. Laurent watches as he gently cradles the kitten back against his chest and brushes her back with the damp rag wrapped around his index finger. 

Crouched beneath the soft rays of sunlight filtering through the wooden window slats and spilling across his chaotic chestnut hair and dark lashes, Makoto looks almost angelic, and Laurent’s breath catches in his throat. 

He composes himself with carefully practiced ease, smiles brightly and says, “She looks like feline royalty. Good work, Edamame.”

Makoto absently hums in approval. 

—

“What is that stuff, anyway?” Makoto asks from his spot next to the cardboard box where he sits cross-legged, chin in hand. Beside him, the kitten is busily exploring the loosely-knitted sweater on shaky legs, tail up and twitching.

“Goat’s milk, a few egg yolks, a dash of water, and some full-fat yogurt. The recipe for kitten nutrition _par excellence_ ,” says Laurent, drawing out the French phrase. He’s standing in the kitchenette he’d invited himself into, mixing together the ingredients in one of Makoto’s worn bowls he’d found on top of the refrigerator.

“Oh,” Makoto replies, dumbly. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes he could’ve researched the recipe himself. For some reason he didn’t quite understand, he hadn’t. 

“By the way,” Laurent adds without looking behind him, “I picked up some coffee on the way back. You should drink it before it gets cold.” 

Makoto’s brows furrow before he spots the neatly folded paper bag and coffee cup on the far corner of the table. It was from an expensive corner coffee shop, one Makoto walked by every day when he still lived in Japan but wouldn’t have dreamt to set foot in then. He grabs the paper bag and casts a furtive glance at Laurent’s back before looking inside.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, taking a large bite of the freshly-baked blueberry scone before he can stop himself.

“Of course.” 

Even lukewarm, the coffee is of unmistakably high quality. The cup is empty by the time Laurent walks over to him with a small bottle of formula cupped in his fingers.

“Here we are,” he says cheerfully. Laurent had long shed his overcoat and he’d unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. The necklace usually hanging from the blond’s neck, the long gold chain and adorned ring that Makoto had never, ever seen Laurent without, is curiously absent.

He pulls his gaze away just as Laurent lowers himself down next to him to rest on his stomach. Makoto doesn’t own any floor cushions, and he suddenly feels strangely inhospitable seeing Laurent sprawled out like this instead of with his legs crossed on some expensive hotel couch. Laurent doesn’t seem to mind the lack.

“You’ve never fed a kitten before, I assume?” Laurent breezily asks. Makoto shakes his head. Smiling, Laurent reaches into the tattered box to gently pry the kitten from the sweater she had hooked her claws into. She mews and displays a row of impossibly small teeth as Laurent gingerly places her into his other hand. 

“When caring for a kitten this young, it’s helpful to envision yourself as her mother,” Laurent explains, slipping into the same tone of voice he used to explain the fine details of a con. “You are, after all, filling her very important role.” The kitten is much smaller than Laurent’s hand, but Laurent handles her with the care of a glassmith tending a work of art. He lifts the nipple of the bottle to her mouth and she latches on immediately. Makoto is mesmerized.

“Wow, she drank right away!” he said, grinning at the way the kitten’s ears twitched as she suckled noisily. 

“I suppose luck was on our side. It does usually take a while for them to catch on,” Laurent replies, watching the kitten eat with a lopsided smile. He tips his head back to glance at Makoto through messy blond bangs. “Shall I transfer her to you?” he asks. Makoto stiffens.

“Wha—N-now?” Makoto squeaks, but Laurent is already placing the kitten, bottle and all, into his palms. The kitten drinks on as if the exchange hadn’t happened.

Satisfied, Laurent lays back to lay his head on his elbow. He watches Makoto’s mouth pull into a frown as he tries to copy how Laurent had angled the bottle earlier. For a long time, the only sound in the room comes from the kitten noisily eating between them.

“Hey, how do you know how to feed these guys, anyway?” Makoto asks without looking up. “Did you con some old cat lady or something?” He grins, pleased with his own joke.

“My mother—“ Laurent says quietly, and Makoto’s blood runs cold. When he looks up, Laurent is tracing one of the crudely-printed cardboard persimmons with his finger. “We raised a small litter together when I was a boy.” 

The comment is unexpectedly intimate, and Makoto can’t get his mouth to form words.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Makoto manages. He doesn’t know whether to add that he’s apologizing both for the dumb joke and for bringing up what are probably painful memories, so he says, “My mom really liked cats. But she was allergic to them, so we couldn’t have any.”

“I know.” 

“Yeah—wait, what?” Makoto blinked. Laurent shifts his gaze to Makoto. His blue eyes are glassy and soft.

“Your father told me,” Laurent replies almost too easily with a small smile. 

Makoto looks away as if the comment burned him. The last thing he wants to talk about, especially with Laurent, is his father. But a part of him—a nagging feeling of emptiness that had followed him each day since their last job—knew that only one other person in his world had truly known his mother, and that asking him about her could keep pieces of her alive. Immediately, he’s struck with a strange mix of pity and guilt that, for Laurent, no such person existed.

Laurent snaps him out of his thoughts with a click of his tongue. “Careful, Edamame,” he gestures toward the kitten still suckling way in his hands. The bottle was nearly empty. “You’ll have to burp her all night if you let air get into her belly.” 

At Makoto’s questioning look, Laurent explained that, just like human babies, kittens should be burped after each feeding, and that they needed help going to the bathroom at this age ( _You didn’t think a mother cat’s job was easy, did you, Edamame?_ Laurent teased). Makoto decides to write down his words to help him remember. When he glances at them later that afternoon, the full page of dark ink looks worryingly sparse.

—

It was early evening by the time Makoto had successfully fed, burped, and toileted the kitten under Laurent’s encouraging praise. 

“Well,” Laurent sighs, stretching his arms dramatically as if kitten care had utterly exhausted him, “Looks like my work here is done.” Makoto’s feet move almost on their own as he follows Laurent to the front door. Makoto stands there, watching the blond slip on his coat, fold down the collar. Laurent’s movements are uncharacteristically slow as he pulls the thick wool into his slim waist, like he’s purposefully lingering. He catches Makoto’s shadow on the front door and turns around.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Can you stay?” Makoto blurts before he can stop himself. He wants to slap himself at how desperate he sounds, nearly begging Laurent to abandon his precious con.

The seconds tick by and Makoto is ready to backpedal on his request as Laurent raises an eyebrow, the surprise in the tilt of his head frighteningly genuine. “Why, Edamame? You were doing a great job—“

“Because!” Makoto almost shouts. Laurent is quiet. Makoto looks over at the cardboard box, the ball of white fur inside. “I just—what if something happens to her and I can’t help?” 

Laurent studies him for a long time, his expression unreadable, before he slowly curls his fingers around the door handle. Just as Makoto opens his mouth, he hums and says, “I’ll be but a moment.”


	2. Chapter 2

**FIUMICINO AIRPORT, ROME (FCO)**

**One Week Earlier**

“How’s Kawin?” Laurent asks as Cynthia takes a bite of her salad in the top floor restaurant. The crowd moves noisily about them with their skidding carry-ons and freshly-printed boarding passes. 

“He’s doing well,” Cynthia says with a smile. “He’s taking some courses he really seems to enjoy.”

“Oh?” Laurent asks. 

“Mmhm. He’s adjusted well, all things considered.”

“He does have a great role model,” Laurent says, and he sees Cynthia’s face brighten at the compliment.

They’re quiet for a few minutes as they pick through their food.

“How’d your call with Edamame go?” The question is deceptively casual.

Laurent folds the edge of his napkin once, twice. 

“He hung up on me,” he says with a smile.

“Ooh,” Cynthia coos in mock teasing. “Poor you.” 

“Poor me, indeed.”

Cynthia rests her elbows on the table and laces her fingers together to rest her chin. She studies him closely as he unwraps his sandwich. 

“Laurent.”

“Hm?” 

“When do you plan on telling him how you feel?” 

“How I feel about what?” He meets her gaze, his smile perfectly even. 

Cynthia opens her mouth to say something and laughs on an exhale instead.

“You’re unbelievable. Really.” She looks out at the restaurant tables across the airport floor, at the couples sharing lunch there under oversized umbrellas that served no purpose in the enclosed building.

“He’s not going to fix you,” she says, quietly. “You can’t con him into forgiving you. You’ll need to earn that on your own.” 

Expression unchanged, Laurent leans back in his chair, pushes his hands into his pockets. “Do go on.” 

She glares at him but continues anyway. “He won’t be able to trust you unless you give him a reason to. And, to put it lightly, you’ve given him every reason _not_ to.” 

She catches the almost imperceptible twitch in Laurent’s bottom lip and knows she’s hit a nerve.

He sighs. And then his next words are uttered with an honesty that catches even Cynthia off guard. 

“I’m afraid there’s not much I can do at this point, short of showing up on his doorstep, that is.”

“Then do that,” Cynthia says without any hesitation.

Laurent looks at her. “What?” 

“Show up, apologize, and relate to him like a normal human being. You’re at least capable of that, aren’t you?” 

_Am I?_ A small voice in Laurent’s head interrupts. Cynthia’s advice is too simple, naïve. 

“Real life isn’t that clean-cut.” His tone is at once somber and firm. “And Edamame doesn’t want anything to do with me.” The words sting as he hears them come out of his own mouth.

“For good reason,” Cynthia replies as Laurent’s frown deepens. “But wouldn’t you rather try changing your approach now than wait around for an answer that might never come?” 

Laurent knows Cynthia is speaking directly from experience. But Laurent isn’t like Cynthia. He’s especially not like Makoto. How can he face Makoto and acknowledge what he’d put him through when he’d rather push the thought aside like a coward, plan a new heist, slip into a new role for himself? Why would the boy ever want to speak to him again, when Laurent hasn’t been able to stand being around himself?

Cynthia’s soft voice breaks through his thoughts. “There _is_ something to the saying that timing is everything,” she says, softly, looking somewhere beyond Laurent. “Sometimes, it really can be too late.” 

“I don’t even know where he is.” Laurent almost cringes at how dejected he sounds. 

Cynthia looks back at him, smiles tiredly. “You’re in luck. He just got back home in Japan yesterday.” 

He doesn’t ask how she knows. His fingers twitch around the figurine in his pocket.

-

**Present Day**

Makoto was already regretting his decision to invite Laurent into his house. Alone.

The morning started out fine—great, even. Laurent showed Makoto how to brush the kitten’s back and feet with a toothbrush to model for her the basics of grooming, and they placed her on the tatami for the first time to explore the apartment. She didn’t get very far, but both men cheered her on when she passed the finish line (the leg of the coffee table) on wobbly legs. 

“Look how good her eyesight is,” Laurent remarked with pride. At that moment, Makoto felt lucky to have a knowledgeable person looking after her.

By mid-morning Makoto remembered what being alone with Laurent was like.

Just as Makoto returned from the grocery store (with groceries for two humans, this time), he was met with Laurent’s unexpected request.

“Edamame, dear, could you grab me a towel?” Laurent’s disembodied voice innocently chimed from the bathroom. “I forgot mine, and I’d rather not drip all over your bathroom floor.”

_I thought I put extra towels in there_ , Makoto groaned, all too aware of the likelihood of coming face-to-face with a naked Laurent (the latest in a long line of unfortunate encounters—for the entire team). He makes a pact with himself to keep his eyes straight ahead as he pulls a folded bath towel from the closet.

He ruefully trudges toward the bathroom only to be hit with a thick wall of steam at the doorway. How long had Laurent been sitting in that bathtub?

“Are all Japanese tubs this small?” Laurent asks right as he walks in. Makoto knows that Laurent’s arms are lazily draped over the edge of the tub and that he’s definitely looking in Makoto’s direction. At least he had enough modesty to lay on his side. Small blessings.

Makoto didn’t dare look over but he said, while fiddling with the towel bar and tucking the fresh towel inside, “They’re not made for giant assholes who spread out all over the place like you. If you wanted more room you should’ve gone to a public bathhouse.” 

Laurent doesn’t miss a beat. “How convenient,” he says, as if this is the first time he’s ever heard of a Japanese bathhouse. Bastard. “Will you join me?” 

The asshole still had the audacity to mess with him after all this time. After everything. Makoto snarls, forgets the rule he set for himself just minutes prior and leans down until he’s inches away from Laurent’s face.

“God, you’re such a pervert!” he cries.

Laurent blinks, clearly taken aback. Then, just as quickly, his eyes soften as a slow, fond smile tugs at his lips.

The shift in expression sends a strange warmth through Makoto’s chest. “Tch,” he scoffs, stepping back. “Pervert,” he repeats, quietly.

Laurent raises his eyebrows. “I suppose I am,” he chuckles. “And this pervert is about to get out, so—“

“And I’m _leaving_ ,” Makoto interrupts. He unknowingly breaks the Guiness world record for speed-walking as he bolts into the living room to the background of Laurent’s unrestrained laughter. He tugs his closet door open with a growl and pulls out his cleaning supplies, then hastily bundles up his futon to carry it out the front door as the kitten curiously looks on from her box.

-

“Idiot. Lowlife scum,” Makoto mutters as he whacks the dust out of the futon he’d thrown over the railing. It’s only morning but he’s already ready for Laurent to disappear. Thank god kittens grow fast.

_In two weeks he’ll be out of here, and I’ll never have to see him again._

As he swings into the futon, his tries to push away thoughts of what happened in the bathroom, but they keep coming back, keep replaying.

Makoto’s used to Laurent’s shameless staring and he usually brushes it off--if he makes eye contact with the guy at all.

But this time… this time was different. 

He thinks back to the hitch in Laurent’s breath when he’d leaned in close, to the surprised look on his face that for a brief, fleeting moment gave way to a look of vulnerability Makoto had never seen on him before. 

Makoto wants to see it again.

It terrifies him.

He swallows as his mind begins to drift to the upward quirk of Laurent’s lips and to the half-lidded gaze that flickered down to his mouth before Makoto pulled away. Something flutters deep in Makoto’s belly and he tightens his grip on the stick in his hand.

The door handle turns and Makoto quickly swings at the futon, his mind blank. Laurent’s barely through the doorway before he takes a look at Makoto and stifles a laugh with his hand.

“What’s so funny?” Makoto snaps, in a tone much too angry for the question asked. 

“Your outfit, for starters,” Laurent replies unbothered, nibbling on a piece of milkbread as his eyes lazily sweep down Makoto’s body. Makoto stops to look down at himself. He’d carelessly tied his hair back with a bandana to keep it out of his eyes and he was still in his pajama shorts. And he was barefoot. Laurent, dressed in a wool sweater and loose lounge pants, leaned back against the door with his arms crossed and a crooked grin as Makoto ignored him and flipped the futon around to get the other side.

Laurent licks his fingers clean, crosses one ankle over the other.

“Who knew watching someone beat a futon to death could be so entertaining?” He teased lightly as Makoto whacked. “Not to mention cute.” 

“Shut up,” says Makoto. He swings harder.

“Those dust mites don’t stand a chance,” Laurent goes on. “Although, I doubt you’ll get the tobacco scent out of there, no matter how hard you hit the thing.” 

Makoto delivers his reply through clenched teeth.

“What was that?” 

“Thanks to you,” Makoto hisses. 

Laurent falls quiet as the sharp whacks drown out the chirping morning birds. Neither make a move to elaborate. They both know when Makoto picked up his first cigarette. A crisp breeze loosens flyaways from Laurent’s towel-dried hair and ruffles the free ends of Makoto’s makeshift headband.

“If not for the sake of your own lungs, then for our Majesty’s,” Laurent says behind him, “Do consider cutting back.” And then he’s gone. 

When the door closes, Makoto’s shoulders fall. Although he hates to admit it, he knows Laurent is right. Makoto hadn’t considered the effect secondhand smoke in the apartment would have on the kitten. He’d tried to quit before, more times than he cared to count. This is the first time he has a real reason to.

-

The shrill calls of cicadas creep into the apartment that night with the autumn chill. Laurent insisted on keeping the window open the entire day to draw out the heavy tobacco smell from the room. He’d blocked Makoto’s hands from touching the glass on several occasions and dismissed all complaints that the room had gotten cold. Makoto eventually gave in to his request, “for the kitten’s sake.” The scent was overwhelming in itself, but to Laurent it also served as a persistent reminder of how, a year prior, he’d abandoned Makoto without a second thought. His heart sank when Makoto confirmed it. 

Finished with his kitten feeding duties for the night, Laurent wearily tucks himself into his futon. It doesn’t take long for his frown to melt into a small smile. The blankets carry Makoto’s scent, a curious mix of spice and fresh linen. It’s comforting and pure, even tinged with tobacco. 

Makoto is turned away from him on the tatami, fast asleep and cocooned under faded floral covers that rise and fall with the younger man’s steady breaths. 

Laurent wants to inch closer, to reach out and run his fingers through the soft messy hair scattered over the pillow. He wants to ask Makoto how he can atone for his mistakes. He hasn’t seen the boy smile in so long.

On a deep, fundamental level, Laurent understands what motivates people to do the things they do, and then he manufactures desires that he alone can fill. But he can’t predict the unpredictable, and that’s precisely what intrigues and frustrates him about Makoto Edamura. Even today in the bath, he’d been on the end of a snarl and a brilliant scarlet blush in the span of three seconds. 

He smiles. He would give anything to know what was going on in the boy’s mind then.

As hard as Laurent tries to get them both back to a semblance of their relationship before the Suzaku con, he’s painfully aware of the fact that he’d lost Makoto’s trust. Makoto looked up to him, confided that Laurent had _changed him_ , and Laurent dismissed the comment as unimportant to his plan. He couldn’t stop thinking about that sunny afternoon by the cliff, turning it over, wondering what he could’ve done differently to part on better terms, to prove he was worth Makoto’s words so the boy would want to keep in touch afterward—willingly. Laurent realized too late that life without Makoto’s presence, without his brutal honesty, his impulsivity, and his endearing pouts and outbursts, was terribly dull, almost unbearable. The only other person that had ever taken up this much space in his mind was... 

He’d scoffed at Cynthia’s simple advice at the time. Then, it sunk in that in the almost decade he’d known him, he’d never bothered to be direct with Makoto about anything unrelated to a heist. He feels his face redden in shame.

Somehow, thanks to fate (and to Cynthia), things fell together in such a way that, tucked inside a futon next to a small box with a kitten in it, Laurent was exactly where he needed to be to have one last chance to do something meaningful, to change something. 

Laurent didn’t yet know what that something was. He had no plan. And kittens grow up so quickly—Laurent feels like he’s in a race against time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, Makoto really did forget to leave guest towels in his bathroom.
> 
> I can't stop imagining Makoto in his futon-beating outfit. He is precious


	3. Chapter 3

For all of Makoto’s grumbling, he and Laurent somehow settled into a surprisingly regular routine. Laurent was far from tidy, but Makoto learned to adapt—he could tell Laurent was serious about making sure the kitten was properly cared for. Besides, their daily conversations were short and uncomplicated and revolved solely around the kitten. Makoto liked it that way. As for the kitten, she reached milestones by the day. She walked through the apartment with confidence and mewed when she wanted to communicate with both conmen (and they answered her—every time). 

As the days passed, Makoto started noticing things about Laurent he’d never noticed before, little things. Laurent woke up with bedhead every morning that he worked hard to make halfway presentable with gels and sprays. He crossed his ankles in the air while he read novels across his futon, and he murmured things in French in his sleep, sometimes between quiet sobs. It reminded Makoto that Laurent was human, flawed like everyone else. That he wasn’t as put together as he seemed.

“We should name her,” Makoto says from his makeshift seat on the folded futon in the corner. Outside, a blanket of heavy clouds darkens the empty streets. Laurent dangles a toy mouse on a string in front of the kitten and she freezes and crouches low on his futon, pupils wide as her whole body sways from side to side, before pouncing with remarkable precision and falling on her back to kick the toy with her hind legs. 

“I agree,” he replies with a chuckle, rubbing her head while she’s distracted. “She does need a name fit for a princess.” He’s quiet for a little while. “How about Juliet? Or Maci?” he asks excitedly, sitting up. “You know, I knew a girl named Maci—“

“ _No_ ,” Makoto interjects. “No way. We are NOT naming this kitten after one of your ex-girlfriends.” 

Laurent gives him a strange look, throws his head back and laughs. “Maci was an elementary school classmate of mine,” he says when he catches his breath. “I haven’t seen her since, but I’ve always liked that name. Just wanted to make that clear so you didn’t think I’d name this tiny kitten after an old flame.” He winks. 

Makoto rolls his eyes. “Fine then. Maci.”

Laurent smiles. 

‘What?” Makoto mutters when Laurent keeps staring.

“I find it amusing that your image of me includes scores of ex-lovers, Edamame,” he says.

“Isn’t it true?” Makoto asks flatly, annoyed.

Laurent hums with a small smile, petting Maci across the back. “No.” 

Makoto looks at him for a long time before he lays back and folds his arms behind his head. He hears Laurent join him not long after as he leans back on his unfolded futon with a soft grunt.

Makoto chews his lip. “You really cared about her,” Makoto says, carefully. 

Laurent’s eyes dart to Makoto’s and away, like he wasn’t sure he heard Makoto correctly, but he doesn’t look angry or annoyed or upset. It frustrates Makoto that he can’t find make out any expression on Laurent’s face at all.

Makoto waits, but Laurent doesn’t say a word. So he scoots his head up on the futon to get more comfortable. With the thick cloud cover outside, the apartment is dark, and the gentle whirr of kitchen appliances  lull him into a pleasant, inviting haze. He yawns as his eyelids grow heavy, ready to give himself over to the pull of sleep.

“Edamame.”

Makoto blinks and lifts his head. Laurent is staring up at nothing, and Mari had fallen asleep on his stomach with her paws tucked under her. She moved gently with his breaths.

“Thank you,” Laurent says, quietly. “For staying.”

As Makoto looks on, processing the words, Laurent sits up and wordlessly reaches for his paperback, sparing Makoto the need to reply. 

The growing silence between them is interrupted only by the occasional flutter of a page turning. 

Makoto lays there, fighting the sudden urge to reach for a cigarette. He did stay. Even when, instead of concerned teammates, all he had were sterile graphs of soaring profit numbers to tip him off that the con was still live. He stayed, and it almost destroyed him. He wasn’t ready to talk about it. The only thing worse than keeping quiet would be to hear Laurent insist he’d kept Makoto in the dark for his own good. 

A sudden, powerful thunderclap clatters the window, and it startles Maci so badly she springs off of Laurent’s chest. Both men sit up in a panic. Laurent runs to the window to pull it shut and Makoto dashes to the middle of the room in an attempt to calm Maci down.

“Edamame, don’t—“ Laurent warns, but by then Makoto’s already got Maci in his hands just as she’s about to jump on the coffee table, and seconds later the sharp pain across his face is so great tears spring to his eyes.

He stands up stiffly, fists clenched at his sides and eyes shut tight. He feels two hands rest on his shoulders. “I’m fine, just ignore it,” Makoto says through clenched teeth. 

Laurent swears under his breath.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” 

Makoto’s lips press into a hard line. How bad was the scratch? 

“Bathroom,” he answers. He hesitantly opens one eye, then the other in time to catch Laurent walk back with a half-full tube of antiseptic. 

“Your medicine cabinet is completely bare,” Laurent tuts offhandedly, pouring the clear liquid onto a cotton ball. He looks down at Makoto, examining the impressive gashes down the side of his nose and left cheek, before he sighs and steps in close. “I’m afraid this will sting, dear,” Laurent murmurs.

Makoto wants to slap his hand away as he had for years, insist he can deal with the wound himself, but Laurent is already cradling his chin in his hand and Makoto is distracted by the warmth of the palm on his cheek and the fingertips, still cool from the window glass, settling against his neck. Laurent gently angles Makoto's face up and presses the soaked cotton ball to his skin. It burns unforgivingly, and Makoto weakly curls his fingers around Laurent’s wrist with a hiss.

“Shh, just a little more now,” Laurent murmurs. He stops to brush a tear away with the pad of his thumb before resuming his work, and the touch is so abrupt Makoto’s grip around Laurent’s wrist loosens. When was the last time he’d been treated him like this, like he was worth fussing over? He breathes deeply and tries to ignore the pungent medicinal smell in the air. The pain slowly dulls down to an ache, and Makoto’s attention settles on the heavy-lidded gaze diligently tracking the scratch’s path across his cheek, the lashes feathering out from the edges. He never thought a guy's eyelashes could be pretty, but he can't think of another word to describe Laurent's. They're _pretty_. In the dim light, they make his eyes look magnetic, inviting. He swallowed. Like a girl's.

The hand shifts against his cheek as Laurent works, and Makoto imagines those fingers wandering, exploring—his neck, his lips, lower. He whimpers softly at the unbidden thought, closes his eyes, desperate to push it out of his head. This couldn't be happening. Why was he reacting like this while Laurent was just tending his wound as a favor—

“You alright?” Laurent asks, a little concerned. Makoto’s eyes snap open. He’d been breathing hard through his nose, trying to calm himself down. He'd never been more grateful to have a believable cover.

“Fine. Are you done?” he asks impatiently.

“Good as new.” Laurent replies with a sympathetic smile, snapping the cap back on the bottle. “A lesson in feline care, Edamame,” he adds with a crooked smile, glancing down at Maci busy cleaning between tiny pink toe beans on the coffee table. Capsule toys litter the table around her like a battleground. “Never intercept a cat in flight.” As Laurent walks away, the sting is faint, overshadowed by the ghost of Laurent’s palm against his skin. 

Makoto stands there, indifferent to the faint pulses of light flashing through the curtains. He knows what this feeling is. He’d felt it once, not long after he found himself shut out from society. It was fleeting out of obligation then, impossible to pursue, forgotten.

How cruel, Makoto thinks, that that feeling should take hold for the very person who made it so.


	4. Chapter 4

The bright orange glow of Makoto’s cigarette bleeds into the night sky as he leans against the lamp post on the far side of the street. Laurent flipped the light off in Makoto’s apartment long ago. He was probably asleep with Maci on top of him. Makoto frowns and snuffs out his first of two cigarettes (he was trying).

“He’s really been here for over a week,” he mutters dazedly. It comes out as something between a statement and a question. 

He pulls the other cigarette from the front pocket of his jeans and lights it. 

When did this happen? When did Laurent’s glances and touches ignite something in him, a yearning he’d only heard about, always as someone on the outside but never as a participant? He didn’t know why it had to be Laurent. Makoto dislikes almost everything about him: the guy is nonchalant, arrogant and full of himself, not to mention emotionally detached from everyone around him. When Makoto talks to him, he often feels like he’s in a room with a two-way mirror, closely examined by a hidden stranger on the other side of the glass with no choice but to stare at his own reflection.

But Laurent had been in love with someone, was ready to _give up conning to spend the rest of his life with her_. When Makoto heard the story, Laurent’s demeanor and mistakes suddenly became understandable, open to confrontation... forgivable. Makoto gets through to people as easily as he breathes, but, frustratingly, he’d never been able to get at Laurent. Maybe, Makoto thinks as he takes another drag, the thrill of accomplishment rushing through him each time he’d pulled one over on him, that thrill that seemed to grow and grow, was more than mere competition—it was a rewarding crack in the mirror, a new avenue to a piece of the man behind the glass. It was illogical, it was impossible, but… he wanted to know the man.

-

Laurent was genuinely afraid he would grow restless and bored living in a shoebox apartment on the outskirts of Tokyo (as endearingly reflective of Makoto’s modesty as it was). But, as life slowed down to an unfamiliar snail’s pace, he found himself enjoying things he’d never thought comforting before, little things. Like the kind, old shop owner downstairs who had a newspaper ready for him every morning, “Free!,” the rumbling purr of a white kitten on his chest at daybreak, the quiet patter of feet around his futon as Makoto respectfully took pains not to wake him when he woke much earlier for chores—

And, perhaps most comforting of all, the morning coffee.

Arms crossed against the wall in pajamas wrinkled with sleep, Laurent watches Makoto’s slender fingers fold the thin crepe cone into the coffee dripper and tilt the kettle to cover the grounds. Makoto’s hands are smaller than his own, more calloused, and the skin around his nails is slightly bitten. They’re beautiful. 

The cuts across Makoto’s face are still very _there,_ tender and red. But they would’ve been much worse off if Laurent weren’t around to disinfect them. When Makoto tried to brush it off as a minor scratch, he knew he had to take it upon himself to do it and leave no room for protest. Maci, after all, was still a stray—his gaze drops to Makoto’s feet—no matter how cute she looked winding through Makoto’s ankles.

Those slim bare feet carefully maneuver around her and walk toward him. “Here,” Makoto says with a frown, holding the small white cup in front of Laurent’s face. The handle was conveniently turned toward him to grasp and he reaches out and takes it just as Makoto lets go to get his own cup. 

When Laurent brings the cup to his lips, the rich aroma fills his nose and almost brings him to tears. Memories of cobblestone streets and chairs crafted of intricate black metal, of wooden countertops and fresh roses in the windowsill flood his mind. They’re faded memories, his only solace that it was possible for life to be marked by stability, by happiness. He draws in another deep breath, letting it out on a small sound tinged with joy and sorrow both. 

“Edamame,” Laurent’s voice comes out softer than he intended, and he clears his throat to adjust it. “Where is this roast from?” 

Makoto’s washing his pour over set in the sink, and the scrubbing slows before picking up again. “I picked that one up in Belgium when I went to Europe over the summer,” he replies. “From a city with a G in it, I think?” 

Laurent smirked. “Was it Ghent, by chance?”

“Yeah, that sounds familiar,” Makoto says as he casually leans against the countertop with cup in hand.

Laurent looks at him before catching his own reflection in the coffee. He frowns. 

How much had Oz told him? Did he tell him Laurent grew up in Belgium? He wasn’t sure, and he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s painfully aware that he’s reaping the consequences of his cowardice.

_“You really cared about her.”_

Laurent misled him, dismissed him, left him, and yet Makoto still reached out to him. He decides that even if Makoto knew only fragments of his past, his kindness was already more than he deserved.

When he looks up he catches Makoto staring at him before quickly, perplexingly, looking away.

“Thank you,” Laurent murmurs.

Makoto stops mid-sip to glance at him over the rim of his cup. “Mmhm.” 

-

As Makoto wipes down the counters after breakfast, he finds himself missing the process of preparing a meal from start to finish. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in ages. The only issue was that now he had to cook lunch for Laurent, too. He knew the guy had a huge appetite and that he wasn’t picky (if the amount of empty takeout boxes littering his hotel rooms was any indication), but he didn’t know what Laurent liked to eat. When Makoto brought up the question Laurent answered without hesitating.

“You know, I tried these stuffed fried potato cheese nuggets the last time I was in Japan. They were heavenly.” 

“Stuffed fried... potato cheese nuggets.” Makoto repeats back slowly. He has no idea what Laurent’s talking about. He asks Laurent to describe them and he does, drawing shapes in the air to show their size and explaining that he got them at a food stand in Nara, “where all the cute deer live.” Several minutes pass before Makoto realizes he’s describing korokke. Cheese korokke. Makoto had never eaten it in Tokyo. Of course Laurent wanted the most obscure thing possible.

But the recipe isn’t too hard to follow, so Makoto zips up his coat and runs the grocery trip, and within an hour they’re both in the kitchen peeling potatoes. To liven the atmosphere, Makoto had dusted off his old radio and tuned it to a classics station.

“Don’t you have to get back to your con soon?” Makoto asks. He’d been wondering how Laurent arranged to disappear in Japan for so long. 

“Tired of me already?” Laurent asks. When Makoto looks up in defense Laurent is smiling. “Truth is, I didn’t have much of a role in this one to begin with,“ He takes a small potato from the bag and starts peeling it. “But you would have.” 

Makoto stops mid-peel. “What do you mean?” he asks, suspicion palpable in his voice. 

“Had you stayed on the phone with me a bit longer, you would have known that we’re working with none other than the inimitable Razzie himself.” 

Makoto can't contain his childlike enthusiasm, his eyes growing as wide as the plates on the countertop. “R-really?” 

Laurent tilts his head and arches a brow in his direction. “Don’t you watch the news, soybean?”

Makoto pouts. “Haven’t been paying attention,” he lies, busies himself with his peeler. He avoided any news about US politics on purpose, hoping that if he pretended Laurent didn’t exist, he could finally push him from his thoughts—and life—for good. Clearly, he thinks as he glances down at the hands awkwardly peeling the smallest potato in the world, that plan failed miserably. 

_You let it fail_ , a small voice in the back of his mind whispers. He swallows.

“Why me?” Makoto asks. “I thought you were going to let me live my life after this.” This time, the words are empty—a test.

For a moment the wisp of peeler blades and the soft plink of piano keys are the only audible sounds in the room. “Maybe I’ve come to enjoy your company,” Laurent says with a shrug. The statement is vague—it’s the opposite of what Makoto wants.

A jumble of responses spring to Makoto’s mind at once. Matching Laurent’s tone he settles on, “I’ll think about it.” Laurent hums in reply. Makoto checks the recipe before walking to the fridge. He rummages through the shelves, blinks, rummages through again. 

“I forgot the cheese,” he grumbles. 

“The main ingredient?”

“Shut it.”

Maci loudly yawns and stretches her paws up on Laurent’s calf and he stops peeling to peer down at her with a smile. _What the hell? She likes him way better than me,_ Makoto thinks bitterly.

“Going out?” Laurent asks as another potato peel joins the pile on the counter. 

“Yeah. Be back.”

_-_

Shopping for cheese was a task much more difficult than Makoto anticipated. The trip took him almost an hour—the first two stores he tried didn’t have any of the kind the recipe called for. It was grueling, but he managed. Makoto had forgotten how even the mundane tasks of a normal life—a slow life free of deception and meticulous planning—could still take a toll on him.

He trudges up the metal steps of the complex, his legs heavy like lead. He’s barely to the door when he hears the music. Even muffled through the door, Makoto could tell the lyrics were in French and that they were sung with a high, wavering voice to a cheerful melody carried by rich strings. The singer starts humming and a soft tenor voice joins in—Laurent’s. Careful not to accidentally let Maci out, Makoto pushes down the handle and opens the door just wide enough to slip inside, only to freeze at the scene in the middle of his living room.

“ _Le temps est bon, le ciel est bleu, j’ai deux amis qui sont aussi mes amoureux…_ ” He hears the lyrics Laurent’s murmuring but he can’t process them, too transfixed by the way Laurent’s body moves across the floor with a grace he didn’t know Laurent was capable of. Laurent has one hand close to his chest and Makoto’s old duster in the other. His long legs bend in time with the music as he expertly waltzes, tilting, stepping to counts of three, the arm holding the duster wrapped around an invisible partner. 

Abruptly, he trips on an uneven seam in the floor and quickly rights himself, throwing his head back with a breathy, self-deprecating chuckle.

He looks completely at ease, relaxed, _free_. It sends Makoto’s heart racing.

When Laurent recovers, he raises the duster to give the overhead light two thorough swipes before tilting his head back down just as the song fades out.  “ _Qu'en pensez-vous, princesse_? Are we done?” he whispers into his chest. 

Makoto lets the door click shut and this time, Laurent spins around in surprise. His face is flushed pink and he’s out of breath, but he smiles when he sees Makoto. Tucked inside the pocket of Laurent’s button-up shirt is Maci, one ear twitching as she regards Makoto as well. 

_“_ Look who’s back,” Laurent says with a grin that softens as quickly as it appears. “And look how he smiles.  _Une vue rare et belle_.” 

Makoto quickly looks away and holds the grocery bag in front of his face to hide the rising heat in his cheeks.

“I found—“ Makoto tries, his throat suddenly dry. “I found the cheese.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
> Qu'en pensez-vous, princesse?: What do you think, princess?
> 
> Une vue rare et belle: A rare and beautiful sight.
> 
> -
> 
> The French song is "Le temps est bon" by Bon Entendeur and Isabelle Pierre. It's adorable. I heard it and thought of Laurent right away :)
> 
> Korokke is a dish related to the French croquette. It’s usually filled with a variety of of things including meat, seafood, veggies (or apparently more rarely, cheese) mixed with mashed potatoes, rolled in breadcrumbs, and deep-fried.


	5. Chapter 5

“So you have,” Laurent replies, fond smile still spread over his face. 

“Just take it and I’ll tell you when to add it,” Makoto says quietly from behind the grocery bag.

Laurent gently scoops Maci out of his shirt pocket and puts her on the floor before walking over to Makoto to do as he asked.

As he reaches for the handle, his pinky finger accidentally brushes against Makoto’s and Makoto steps back until he hits the wall with a _thud._ Wordlessly, he speed-walks to the kitchen without sparing Laurent a glance.

Laurent is almost afraid to entertain the thought but… he could swear the soybean was growing soft on him. 

It was the blush. It reminded him of the first day they met, when he outfitted Makoto for their target in Los Angeles. Laurent just wanted to reassure him that he looked good in his tailored suit when he’d laid his hands on those small shoulders. He didn’t expect to see a helpless flush across Makoto’s cheeks, when just moments before he’d daringly challenged Laurent to a bet too lofty for his own good. The reaction was unreserved, pure, a testament to Makoto’s unshakeable modesty. It might have started then, for Laurent. 

Slowly, steadily, that initial attraction gave way to something he didn’t think he could feel again. The thing about affection, Laurent learned the hard way, is that it can flourish in the background, imperceptibly when you’re too preoccupied with something else to realize it. It sprouts while you watch the novice swindler you recruited rekindle an injured veteran pilot’s passion for flying and travel across town to reunite a teammate with her ex-lover. It blooms when that emerging confidence man stays in the con at his own expense to liberate you from yours, and when he trusts you to keep a kitten alive in good faith even though you’ve failed him countless times before. 

Now Laurent was here, standing with a bag of cheese Makoto hunted down from some far-off grocery store and wondering what _he_ had possibly done to make Makoto look at him that way, with soft blushes and sidelong glances. With care.

That’s what it is, isn’t it? _Care._ Makoto had dozens of coffee roasts stored away in his apartment from his travels, but he’d hand-ground and served the Belgian roast to Laurent every single morning since the day Laurent first tried it. Makoto was patient with Laurent’s long showers and his forgotten candy wrappers and his secrecies. The gestures brought him comfort without a single word. It was something Dorothy had never done—not like this. Or maybe he just never got the chance to experience it with her. 

For years Laurent cut himself off from feeling, from getting too close. It was a matter of survival. But there Makoto was, attending to him, daring him to _try._

Candidness, sincerity, vulnerability. He’d forgotten what they looked like. And Makoto embodied them so naturally and effortlessly—he had no doubt that whatever feelings Makoto developed for him were genuine, but he doubted they ran much deeper than physical attraction. Laurent accepted that, he could satisfy that and live with it. He hoped dearly they’d at least part amicably, maybe even as work partners, but he didn’t dare believe they had any chance at a romantic relationship after what he’d put Makoto through. He’d given Makoto nothing to love.

-

“Not again,” Laurent groans in exasperation, wetting a rag.  Maci took to weaning right away, but she left behind a tornado of formula and wet cat food after almost every meal. 

“Terrible, terrible table manners,” Laurent mutters disapprovingly as he wipes the mixture off of Maci’s tiny chin.

“Sounds like you,” Makoto says as he walks by with a laundry basket. It takes Laurent a second but he chuckles. The sound is warm, rich like honey. 

Makoto starts to grin but catches himself at the last second. God, was he actually happy he’d cheered Laurent up? He was such an idiot.

“Come on,” Laurent casts a playful glance at Makoto, who’s busy pulling out clean laundry—both of theirs—to fold on the tatami. “My manners aren’t that bad.”

“ _You_ didn’t scrape melted cheese and breadcrumbs off the floor yesterday,” Makoto shoots back as he folds a pair of Laurent’s wool pants no fewer than four times. _His legs are way too long_ , Makoto grumbles to himself. Laurent puts his hand on the wool and Makoto looks up in question. 

“You don’t need to do that for me, dear,” he says quietly. He takes the folded pants from Makoto’s hands and picks out his clothing from the basket. 

They fall into an easy rhythm as Laurent tries to copy Makoto’s technique, organizing his shirts and pants into perfect, wrinkle-free squares and stacking them on the tatami. Laurent’s pile ends up way bigger than Makoto’s, a tower of pinks and greys. He’s nowhere near done folding when Makoto interrupts him.

“Um…” Makoto squeaks. Laurent looks back as Makoto holds up a pair of tiny red silk briefs, eyes wide. He’s pinching them between thumb and index finger by the edges, like he’s afraid of them. “Grabbed someone else’s laundry by mistake I guess?” he says nervously, mouth set in a wobble.

Laurent smiles brightly. “I _knew_ I missed something.” Makoto’s head snaps up. “Those are mine.” 

He says it like he’s identifying a hat at a lost-and-found and not something that could easily pass for lingerie.

Makoto goes as red as the article in his hands and he holds them out to get a better look at them. “W—what?! You wear these?!” 

Laurent shrugs. “They’re more comfortable than other cuts.”

“But doesn’t it…” His eyes flicker to the crotch of Laurent’s pants and back up. “H-how do you even fit in this thing?!” Laurent bursts into laughter as Makoto processes the horror that just came out of his mouth.

“Is that a compliment?” He teases with a wink.

Makoto turns impossibly redder. “No! I mean—” he sputters. “Y-you wish!”

It happens too fast for Makoto to register. One second they were feet apart on the floor and the next Laurent is right up in his face, arms resting on either side of Makoto’s knees, pinning him with a soft look that makes Makoto forget he’s holding something.

Laurent’s gaze drops to Makoto’s lips, licks his lips, and Makoto stops breathing. 

“What if I do wish?” he asks, his voice lilting and light. His blue eyes flit up to Makoto’s for a millisecond before they drop back down to his mouth, and then he’s leaning…

_ Closer _

_ Closer _

A feeling of elation runs through Makoto, exhilarating, blinding, and his body moves on his own as he does the only thing that makes sense to him.. .

.

.

He pushes his hand into Laurent’s face.

Laurent makes a small questioning sound but there's no resistance as Makoto pushes him back. Instead of moving out of the way, Laurent gently covers Makoto’s hand with his own—holding it there—and Makoto’s heart rate picks up. 

Somehow it’s worse than before, because now he can feel the rough stubble against his skin and the warm palm cradling the back of his hand those lashes fluttering against his fingers and _Oh god his tongue—_

He blushes darkly and pulls his hand away to wipe it on his shirt, trying to distract himself from the heat curling in the pit of his stomach.

Laurent steals a quick glance at Makoto before turning back to his laundry pile with a smile.

For what seems like ages Makoto sits there and stares at Laurent’s back. _Why did I do that?_ he wonders, frustrated. It would’ve been the easiest thing to meet Laurent halfway and slot their lips together, like he desperately wanted to, let Laurent take the lead. 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not yet. Makoto wanted too much, and he didn’t trust that Laurent wouldn’t take it all and give nothing in return. 

A knock on the door startles them both. 

“Edamura!” Kudo’s cheerful voice rings through the door. “You home?” 

“Uh,” Makoto shouts, hurriedly stuffing the underwear into his pocket as Laurent tidies up his clothing pile. “Yeah! Door’s unlocked!” he yells.

The door opens and Kudo steps inside. He blinks. “Sorry, I…” His eyes jump between the gashes across Makoto’s nose and cheek, and Laurent—who Kudo is pretty sure he’d never seen sitting on a floor ever—quietly folding clothes. Every time Kudo thought he understood their relationship, he’d been completely off the mark. “Did I drop by at a bad time?”

“No, it’s ok!” Makoto insists. “She’s over there,” Makoto gestures to the windowsill where Maci is sitting, surveying the room. 

“Edamuraaa,” Kudo cajoles, practically skipping to her. “She’s so much cuter than you let on over the phone!” He scoops her up without hesitation and she allows it.

“It’s hard to catch a break from the cuteness around here,” Laurent agrees. Makoto shoots him a glare and finds him with his chin in his hand, smiling back at him. 

“I’ll say,” Kudo replies, looking down at her. “And her eyes! They’re looking straight into my soul!” Kudo carries Maci like a newborn as he walks over to sit on Makoto’s folded futon. 

“How’ve you been, Kudo?” Laurent asks. 

“Oh, getting some much-needed relaxation. Shi-won and I spent a few months in Seoul. I don’t think there’s a single sightseeing spot she didn’t take me to. It’s been great, but I’m so worn out! I’m glad to be back home, though, even with this damn cold. Hey—” He puts Maci down and reaches for his back pocket. “I wanna show you guys something before I forget.”

Kudo opens his wallet and flips to the back before holding it out. The two cats in the bent photo sit side by side in the same exact pose, one black with golden eyes and the other white with bright blue eyes. They’re both staring straight at the camera.

“The white one looks just like Maci,” Makoto says and Kudo nods. “I didn’t know you had cats!” Surprisingly, he’d never been to Kudo’s home. 

“Just one now,” Kuro replies with a hint of sadness in his voice. “Shiro passed a few years back, but Kuro’s still around. He’s an old geezer like me,” he chuckles, “but still sprightly, heh, unlike me.” He smiles down at Maci, who’s making biscuits on Makoto’s futon, gaze resolutely set on Kudo. 

“She likes you!” Laurent exclaims, and Kudo grins at the compliment. 

“You can cat-sit her if you want, Kudo,” Makoto offers. 

“Really? I think Kuro would love to meet another cat,” Kudo says. “Are you going off somewhere, Edamura? Another job with the team?” 

At this Makoto cringes, expecting Laurent to interrupt, to say something like, _I’ve got something in the works but I haven’t been able to convince this little soybean to join—got any ideas, Kudo?_ But Laurent is silent, staring at Makoto like he’s just as interested in his answer as Kudo is.

“Um…” Makoto fumbles. He doesn’t know what to say, and he’s ashamed to admit to himself that it’s because he’s not used to having a _choice_. He looks up at Kudo. “Maybe,” he says as casually as he can. “I mean, Laurent has a new target. But I still haven’t decided if I wanna join yet.” 

Kudo happens to look at Laurent then, and the expression he sees on the conman’s face gives him pause. Kudo’s experience with relationships could be summed up as a disastrous train wreck of poor communication that led to screaming matches that led to a daughter he hadn't seen in years. But he knows what that look of longing on Laurent’s face means, he can see the hope in it. Perhaps Kudo wasn’t as off-the-mark as he thought. _Maybe things will turn out for them,_ he thinks, scratching his ear.

“Well,” Kudo says, his voice cheerful, “You know where to find me, Edamura! I’d love to take care of this little one while you’re gone.” 

“Yeah! That would be great, Kudo,” Makoto grins. Kudo gives Maci a final scratch behind the ear and she meows loudly, clearly pleased. All three men immediately lean forward and give her scratches and pets. Kudo leaves not long after, wishing them well, just as Makoto finishes folding the last of the laundry.

He pokes Laurent with his index finger and Laurent looks over his shoulder with a hum. 

“Here,” Makoto mutters with a sidewise glance.

Laurent smiles softly as he takes the neatly folded square of red silk from his hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can't stop thinking about these two and their potential and needed to write something about it. 
> 
> Note: Even though I did a little research to write this chapter, it's by no means comprehensive; please consult a vet first should you also find yourself with an orphan kitten! 
> 
> Thanks for reading ^^


End file.
